


We've Got Tonight

by marksmanfem



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Apocalypse, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Chuck is a dick, Crossroads Deals & Demons, Cults, Dean Winchester Does Karaoke, Dean Winchester Does Not Understand, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, God is a dick, It was just a dream, Karaoke, Out of Order, Rewind - Freeform, Second Chances, Temporary Character Death, What Did You Expect, Yes another apocalypse, dean cleans up good, dean goes on a date, it's a Supernatural story, redo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 12:04:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15630336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marksmanfem/pseuds/marksmanfem
Summary: “You should’ve waited, Andy. You should’ve talked to me, given me a chance to find something, anything but this. I can’t...I’m done. I’m fucking done.”





	We've Got Tonight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Incog_Ninja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Incog_Ninja/gifts).



> I would like to state for the record that I love Crowley, and he is possibly my favorite character on the show. That said, there was only one possible role for him in this story.

The scruffy, unassuming man sits on a stool in the middle of the deserted stage, strumming his guitar strings with a morose abandon that does nothing to improve the lack of quality of his playing. He could play much better if he wanted to, but right now he thinks the occasional twang of a missed note fits his mood perfectly. He gazes off in the distance, his bleary eyes wandering from the empty counter to the patron-less tables, anywhere in the pub that isn’t his own booth and does not contain his latest chapters.

There’s a rumble of thunder from outside, which is funny, because there isn’t any weather here. There isn’t anything here but him.  _ Here _ isn’t even here, not really.

He could fix this whole mess, though, could tweak a couple of things, pull some cosmic strings…

But there’s still order to consider, balance and fate and…

And bullshit.

It’s all bullshit.

With a discordant clang, he thrusts the guitar onto a stand that didn’t exist before that moment and stalks his way over to the waiting typewriter. He frowns at the short stack of pages, thumbing through them slowly, scanning various passages. His whole face crinkles, displeasure etched in every line. He chuffs out a despondent breath, dropping into his seat resignedly.

“I can’t do it, I can't. Not to...not to any of them, but how do I even fix it?”

He stares at the pages on the table, wracking his brain for any solution to the snarl in his precious plot. Short of personally intervening, he just can’t see how to-

“Oh,” he says, hit by a nauseating realization. The light in his eyes can’t be described as delighted by any stretch. More of a light bulb of misery that clarifies his expression as the answer to his problem becomes apparent. He reaches out a steady but reluctant hand and crumbles the finished pages, tossing them to the side before sliding a fresh sheet into his typewriter.

“Maybe she won’t kill me too much,” he mutters, the clacking of the keys echoing hollowly around the empty pub. “I mean, she still gets to make the choices, I’m just...giving her another option. Free will. Yeah.” His frown digs deeper, etching the lines of despondency a little more permanently across his forehead, and he settles in to the story once more.

...

“Okay, Andy, you’ve got this,” she mutters. She stands outside the bunker, fingers frozen on the handle. She can feel her heart beating in her throat as she clutches the latch but still can’t bring herself to open the damned door.

“This isn't so hard,” she sighs. “I’ve opened thousands of doors. I’ve opened this exact one before. I can open it again.”

_ It’s not that simple, _ her traitorous brain whispers. She knows it isn’t the door that makes her hesitate; it’s dealing with who’s behind it that twists her heart and makes her fingers turn stupid. Considering the stunt she’s attempting to pull off, it’s not just her fingers that feel stupid right now. And knowing she’s about to face down Dean and all his impending wrath and try to actually lie to him?

Suicidal levels of idiocy.

“Stick to your story. Say as little as possible, avoid all mention of demons. You found a lead, the source was jumpy, and you couldn’t bring anyone else. Lead never showed, you waited, but nothing came from it. Don't get fancy; he'll see right through you.”

She’s been coaching herself this way for an entire day. The meet-up was only a couple of hours away, but she left early and came back a day late, knowing every minute she spends with Dean makes her five times more likely to reveal every recess of her soul. She’s never wanted to spill every secret she knows with someone like she does with this beautiful asshole. But she came back when she probably shouldn’t have, even though it means attempting the impossible of keeping this secret from the person she wants to lie to the least, and she’s not going to waste the precious little time she has left by standing outside the door all night. She had to give herself - give them both - just one more night together. In the end, she knows she would never make any other choice.

Sneaking in to the Winchesters’ bunker is universally known as the last act of a desperate idiot, and Andy certainly feels up to the part tonight.

Clutching the strap of her backpack in a death grip, she silently crosses the landing. She places her foot on the top stair just as Dean rounds the corner from the hallway below her, both hands fisted in his hair. Even from this distance she can read the lines of tension in his shoulders. Her stomach twists, nausea and joy warring at the sight of him, and she can’t decide if she should turn and sprint for the door or throw herself at him and admit absolutely every foolish thing she’s done.

No. No, not foolish. She’s saving the world. That’s only a little stupid. She’s saving Cas and Sam. That’s good. She’s saving Dean.

That’s non-negotiable.

Then her weight settles on her foot, and the goddamned step creaks. Dean’s eyes snap to hers. For one hopeful moment, relief and genuine happiness flood his expression, and he smiles. The unclouded light shining from his face scraps any thoughts she has of bolting, and Andy makes it halfway down the steps before she’s engulfed in his arms. He embraces her fiercely, and Andy allows herself a couple of seconds of peace and comfort, of the sense that she’s somehow home even though she’s only known him for a few weeks. Then the overwhelming realization of everything she’s signed away comes crashing down, closing her throat, choking off her air, and suddenly even the heat and safety radiating from Dean into her very bones isn't enough to ward off the chill of dread.

But she’s doing this to save him, to save Sam, to save...everyone. So, really, she’s not losing anything. If you save something, it’s not lost, so, really, she’s not losing anything.

Right?

Then her head is trapped between his hands, his face inches away, his eyes boring into hers with that burning intensity. The lies evaporate on her tongue, and she racks her brain. What was she supposed to tell him? She has to say it before he starts questioning her, or she’ll blurt out every single thing she swore she wouldn’t.

“Are you okay? Where the hell were you? Was it those anti-Jesus freaks? How did you get away?”

What? Oh, yeah. The cultists. The whole reason she has a lovely new scar on her left arm and she met the Winchesters in the first place. The source of all their current troubles. Well, the main source, aside from her blood. Yeah, that would have been a good cover story, too.

Shit.

“Andy?”

“I’m fine, Dean,” she manages, thankful at how little her voice shakes. She puts forth the effort of the ages and extricates herself from his grip, an act she recognizes as necessary while regretting it all the same. “I’m sorry I scared you. I had a lead, and I had to leave right away. They were really twitchy when I first contacted them, and I thought they might take off if I waited too long or tried to take anyone else, and by the time I realized I’d lost my phone it was too late to come back.”

Anger and disbelief seep into his expression, tainting the relief that animated him only moments before. “Okay, first of all, we’re going to have a long, detailed talk about taking off on your own for any reason without backup, much less chasing your own leads, because no. Just no. Second of all, what the hell? Did all phones between here and wherever the hell you went just vanish?”

“You programmed your numbers into my cell, but I never memorized them. I didn’t have any way to contact you once I got there, and-”

“And you couldn’t leave a damn note?!”

Deep breath. Keep steady.

“Look, I’m really wrecked, Dean, it was a long drive, and it ended up a bust. The guy never showed. I’m dying for a shower and some food. You can interrogate me all you want, but can we not do it right here, right now?” She pushes past him, brushing him off in a way she’s never done before, but if he keeps gazing into her soul with those green laser beams of his, she’s going to lose every ounce of self-control. Her fingers tremble with strain, and she clutches her bag tighter, determined to hold herself together for his sake.

She only gets a couple of seconds of reprieve, though, just barely making it off the staircase. He catches up with her as she passes the map table, aiming for escape through the library, and he snatches her elbow. His grip is harsh as he pulls her around to face him, and her fingers fumble at the fierce heat behind his eyes. Her backpack drops, spilling its contents on the floor around their feet, and her stomach bottoms out. She immediately tries to crouch down, to stuff her papers and books back in before Dean can see them, but his grasp tightens on her arm, and he forces her back up to meet his eyes.

“You don’t get to disappear for  _ two and a half days  _ and then just-”

“Andy!”

Oh, thank god for Sam.

Andy takes advantage of Dean’s surprise to pull out of his grip, but before she can bend down, she’s engulfed in a second, longer set of arms that feels almost as much like home as his brother’s.

God, what has she done? She really is going to lose everything. But this has to be worth it. Saving them is worth it, she knows it is. It’s going to be okay.

“Andy, are you okay? Where were you?” Sam is still in his concerned phase, and she’d like to make her exit to gather her thoughts before he hits Dean’s level of suspiciously pissed. She knows of no force in Heaven or Hell that can withstand the combined onslaught of Dean’s anger and Sam’s lectures.

“She says she found a lead,” Dean cuts in before she can try to explain herself. He’s definitely on the outer edges of pissed, and that’s fine. She can handle pissed, she just has to figure out what to do before he reaches volcanic levels of anger.

She drops down before anyone else can stop her and starts shoveling handfuls of papers in her bag. She needs to get them out of sight. She should have burned them,  _ why didn’t she burn them _ , god if Sam sees some of it, he’ll know what she did without her having said a word to him, and -

“Andy, what the hell is this?”

Dean’s voice has dropped to a low, measured growl, and her eyes slide shut in dismay.

_ Don’t admit to anything, you don’t know what he found, just - _

“You said you lost your phone, and now it falls out of your damned bag?  _ You’re lying to me? Why _ -”

“Maybe because of this,” Sam cuts in, and she hears a rustle of papers from her other side, and she swears for a just a moment that it’s the loudest sound she’s heard in her entire life. It doesn’t matter which of her papers or which book Sam is showing his brother. They are all equally damning, and she really should have known better than to think she could get away with this plan.

“I had to do something. We were running out of time, so I made a decision while I still could.”

She’s impressed and surprised at the steadiness in her voice, the actual conviction. She is equally surprised to find herself standing when she opens her eyes, looking down at two of the most important people in the world, one of whom is regarding her with dismayed shock, and the other…

Her stomach wars with her brain; rational thought says the logical response to someone glaring at her with as much venom as Dean is packing is to run. Her stomach, on the other hand, is fully in favor of ejecting all contents in sheer terror. Somehow, she manages to shove down both impulses and stand her ground.

There’s a long moment where it seems like the whole bunker, the whole world, holds its breath, waiting for something to snap the tension. To Andy’s astonishment, Sam breaks in before Dean’s temper can explode.

“Andy, tell me you didn’t. Even after everything we’ve told you, everything you know about us and our history, you called a crossroads demon? Where did you even find the summoning spell?”

She turns incredulous eyes on the younger Winchester. “Sam. I... _really, Sam?_ When I asked to help, you put me on research. I didn't know where to look, and _you_ gave me a stack of books, most of which had some variation of that or a similar spell in it. You gave me access to one of the world’s biggest fix-its, and you didn’t think I would do something with that?”

Sam opens his mouth, his face set with sheer, stubborn indignity, but he falls silent as Dean stands abruptly. He stalks past Andy, his silence far more worrisome than any shouting or lecturing could ever be. He stops at the bottom of the library steps, gripping the back of his neck like he’d rather have his fingers wrapped around something’s throat, and he stands like that for what feels like forever.

“I made a deal. To save you, Sam, Cas. Everyone. I had to do it.” Andy can’t stop the words that tumble for her trembling lips, and she can only be thankful that she doesn’t have to see Dean’s face as she says them. She should never have tried to lie to him, to them both, but especially not to him. Not after all the lies he’s had to live through.

“I won’t apologize. I found a way out of the end of the world when we had no other options, and I took it.”

Dean stands stiffly, unmoving as she confesses to his back. Sam wisely keeps his mouth shut, kneeling on the floor to look through Andy’s papers, avoiding looking at either of them. The gravid silence that hangs over the room is broken only by the thudding of her heart and the crinkle of pages as Sam rifles through her backpack’s spilled contents.

“Explain. Now.” Dean’s words are quiet and caustic, their bitterness cutting Andy straight to the heart.

This isn’t what she wanted, but their time is too short to try to work everything out. There will be nothing like a fairy tale ending for them, so she forces herself to say what she can. There are still some details she doesn’t want to tell him; if he knew everything, he could keep her here, keep her from going back to finish the deal, and she absolutely cannot let that happen.

“I did what you and Sam do every day. I did my research, I made a plan, and I faced the monsters. I made a choice, Dean.” She only just keeps the notes of desperation from creeping into her voice, though it’s a near thing.

He moves as she speaks, turning back to the table, his face inscrutable as he leans down to grip the back of one of the chairs. He holds onto it as if it’s the only thing keep him together, and she feels a ridiculous stab of sympathy for the piece of furniture that’s bound to come to a bad end.

“And you think sneaking around, lying to all of us, and making a deal with a crossroads demon is going to magically fix everything?”

He’s too calm, too quiet. The chair creaks ominously under his fingers, and Andy takes a hasty step back. Sam stands, his forehead wrinkled with concern as he takes a step towards the table.

“Andy, just tell us the details,” he interjects, his tone low and placating, like he’s trying to calm a cornered animal. “We can figure out a way to get you out of the deal. What did the demon you met with look like? Did they tell you their name? How much time do you have?”

“ _ God DAMN IT!” _

Dean slings the chair to the side, and it skates over the floor, shredding through her papers before slamming into a support pillar with a deafening metallic clang and careening across the room. Sam steps up protectively next to her, his hands half-raised like he can’t decide if he should try to talk his brother down or block more pieces of flying furniture.

“Why, Andy? Why didn’t you just wait for Sam or Cas to find something? We were looking!”

“There was no time left, Dean!” She knows there aren’t enough words in any language to explain her decision in a way that will satisfy him. It doesn’t matter to him that she’s one of the sources of all their troubles right now, or that she is an adult who was perfectly capable of making decisions about her life long before the Wonderful Winchesters and their Guardian Angel rode into town.

“We had days left, at best! I didn’t want this anymore than you did, but it was my blood that started this whole disaster, my blood the cult needs to finish everything,  _ literally everything _ ! It’s my blood that’s the solution to this whole shitshow, and that means it’s my mess to clean up. I learned that much from you and Sam, at least! You clean up the messes you make, whether you meant to make them or not. You, of all people, could at least try to understand!”

“Understand what?! That you think selling your soul will actually fix anything?”

Dean closes the distance between them, his fingers digging hard into her shoulders, knocking Sam to the side as he disregards all concepts of personal space.

“Selling your soul never solves a damned thing! And don’t you think for one damned second I’m gonna let you go through with this deal.”

“I’ve already gone through with it, Dean, I signed the contract. You can’t stop it, and you can’t change it. He said you’d try, and-”

“Wait a minute, ‘he’?” Sam cuts in, and Dean’s face flushes a deeper shade of crimson.

“You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t make a deal with that son of a bitch Crowley.”

Why, oh why, did she ever think she could keep this from them? God, she was so stupid.

“I made a call. I was either going to hell and taking the rest of the world with me, or I was going by myself and keeping the rest of you safe.”

“You had no right-”

“To make decisions about my life? The hell I don’t, it’s  _ my _ life, Dean! Who gave  _ you _ the right-”

“It’s not just your life, and you damned well know it!”

The three of them stand frozen, the shouted words echoing faintly through the enormous room, Sam gaping at the two of them, Dean gripping Andy like he thinks she’s about to bolt, and Andy trying desperately to remember why she’s not simply throwing herself into Dean’s arms.

Castiel, with his impeccable timing, chooses this moment to enter the bunker. The creaking door catches their attention, and all eyes turn to Cas, who stands on the landing, surveying the tableau of chaos beneath him. His eyebrows lower, his consternation clear.

“Andrea?” Cas’s voice is confused but gentle as he cautiously descends the stairs. She knows from the stories Sam and Dean have told her that her friend has a fearsome warrior side that makes even the worst demons think twice before approaching, but she’s never seen a hint of that part of him. She’s seen this man soberly examining a bowl of Cheetos, questioning their attractiveness to large, feline predators; she has a difficult time picturing him facing down the worst monsters the universe has to offer, and yet, according to Sam and Dean, he does so without hesitation on a regular basis.

Which is why his cautious approach should really worry her.

“Dean, is it really necessary to hold on to Andrea quite that hard? You’re bound to leave bruises, and she doesn’t seem to be attempting to leave.”

Dean releases Andy abruptly, his face dark and lined with the effort of repressing his rage, and he storms past the bewildered angel. He stops at the bottom of the stairs, his hand on the banister, his legs flexing and trembling as if he has to force himself to stop even that long. Sam takes a step towards him, but Cas holds out a restraining hand, and for once, Sam complies, though he looks seconds away from protesting.

“You should’ve waited, Andy. You should’ve talked to me, given me a chance to find something, anything but this. I can’t...I’m done. I’m fucking done.”

He climbs the stairs three furious steps and is out the door before anyone can think of how to stop him, leaving Andy lost in the remnants of his anger and her shoulders aching more from the loss of his grip than the roughness of it. Her throat is burning, her jaw aching with strain, but her eyes are dry.

_ There was no other way, there just wasn’t. I did the right thing, and damn Dean to Hell if he thinks I’m going to cry for that. _

“Andrea?”

Cas reaches out steadies her, his grasp gentle and comforting in stark contrast to Dean’s furious hold on her only moments ago. Our lack of information regarding your whereabouts was quite troubling, and we assumed the worst.”

“Maybe not the absolute worst,” Sam sighs, leaning wearily against the table. He scrubs his hands over several days’ worth of stubble before rubbing his eyes. When he speaks again, he can’t even meet her eyes, and an acidic splinter of shame twists in her stomach.

“You really should have waited, Andy.”

….

_ One month is not enough time to get used to nights in the bunker _ , she thinks as she stares at the back of Dean’s door. It’s too sterile, too unnatural, with the quiet permeating every crevice and recess _. There must be some sort of muffling spell or noise cancellation technology… or maybe just really good insulation. _ She’s used to the chatter of customers, the ding of the door chime, the clatter of plates, and the sloshing of the dishwasher. She’s never had to listen to herself think this much before, and she freely admits she is not a fan.

It’s been about five hours since Dean stormed out. “I’m done,” he said, but she doubts she’ll have to wait much longer. Those last words he shouted before Castiel came in, the way he gripped her and she had to force herself not to cling right back, tells her they aren’t finished, either with their argument or each other.

Muffled footsteps, the only sound besides her heart beat and non-stop internal monologue, let her know only moments before the doorknob turns that Dean is back. The door swings open, not with the angry force she’s expecting, but with the same weary resignation that bows his shoulders as he steps into his room and shrugs off his jacket. His eyes meet hers for an eternity, then he deliberately takes two more steps forward and closes the door firmly behind him.

She’s in his arms without a moment’s hesitation, devouring him with every bit of desperation she possesses. He tastes faintly of scotch, and she can picture him sitting despondently at the local watering hole, glaring balefully at a single glass of liquor for hours.

His arms constrict automatically until she’s equally breathless from his embrace as she is from the kiss. Just when she thinks he may have to physically hold her up, Dean pulls away just far enough to stare hard into her eyes, his expression daring her to challenge with his next words.

“We are not done talking. You are going to tell me every detail of your deal, whether you like it or not. And don’t think for a second I’m going to let you go through with it. Choices be damned, Andy, this isn’t just about you anymore, and you know it.”

She refrains from telling him how much of a dad vibe he’s giving off as she shoves his flannel from his shoulders and pulls his face back to hers, clenching a handful of his t-shirt in a death grip.

Neither of them is gentle as they remove clothing and stagger their way to his bed; she knows they don’t have the time to be, and he suspects as much but doesn’t say so aloud. Neither is willing to ruin their precious remaining moments together by bringing up something as distasteful as reality. Nails score flesh, fingers bruise limbs, even their lips come away with faint traces of blood from accidental clashes with teeth.

“How long?” he rasps, his lips ghosting over her sternum. Her nails dredge shallow furrows across the backs of his thighs as he pulls back before thrusting hard, driving her into his mattress. “How long have we got, Andy?”

She tugs his mouth down to her breast, hissing as his teeth scrape over her nipple. Her fingers thread into his hair, holding him in place, silently willing him to let the subject go. She can’t answer him. She’s had a month with him, and while she’d really rather have something closer to a lifetime, all she’s asking now is two more uninterrupted, untainted hours. If she tells him, then the shortness of their time becomes real, everything becomes devastatingly real, and here in the bunker that is far too quiet for her own peace of mind, she can pretend the outside world and all it’s insane occultists and apocalypses and demons and deals don’t exist. She can pretend it’s just her and Dean, and nothing else bad is waiting on the other side of the horizon.

And he’d try to stop her. And probably succeed. So, no. She can’t tell him.

It’s some time before both of them are sated enough to lie relatively still. She keeps her back to him, knowing if she looks in his eyes she is liable to spill every bit of information she has left, and she does not want a repeat of the scene from earlier. Once was more than enough.

“I’m waiting, Andy.”

_ We all have to learn to live with disappointment, hun,  _ she thinks. Aloud, she sighs and pushes herself back until her shoulder blades press against his chest. She’s been cold since they first brought her to the bunker last month, and his warmth is almost enough to make her forget that she’s chilled to her marrow. She shivers, forcing a partition up in her mind to keep out thoughts of her impending departure. She’s going to wait until he’s asleep, then head out to make the last rendezvous.

_ Sunrise, Dean, _ she thinks, despite her best efforts.  _ I’ve got til sunrise. We’ve got less than that. _

Luckily, she’s had enough caffeine to give a draft horse the shakes, and he’s running on three hours sleep for the last couple of days, so he should pass out pretty soon. The last thing she needs is the infamous Winchester Interference with her plans.

With the confidence that comes of knowing she’s right at the end of everything, Andy rolls over and pulls Dean’s head down so his cheek rests between her breasts, cradling him like a child and stroking his hair just as she’s longed to do since he walked into her diner and winked at her over a stack of pancakes. He doesn’t protest, doesn’t even pretend to resist, instead nuzzling deeper in her embrace, and that’s when she really knows she’s wounded him far more deeply than she should have been capable.

“It was only supposed to be a fling,” she remarks to the top of his head as she runs her nails over the base of his skull. He shivers, pulling the blanket over them up to his chin and sliding his arms around her waist. His shoulder lies on her stomach, its weight sitting comfortably against her belly. “You declared your love for me because I brought you bacon, for God’s sake. At four in the afternoon. You were supposed to be a good time, Dean, one good night, and then slide on out of town like a good boy.”

“You’d already be dead if you hadn’t given me your number,” he points out. For once, his lascivious nature is dormant, and he doesn’t so much as sneak a stray lick or grope, despite his optimal position. She strokes her thumb down the side of his jaw, chafing at several days’ worth of stubble that covers his cheeks. He turns his face into her touch, sliding his nose against the sensitive skin under her breast, and then it’s her turn to shiver.

“Andy, before you do anything stupid...anything  _ else _ stupid, I need to tell you...I need you to know that I...”

“No, you don’t,” she chides, cutting him of before he can choke out any more ill-advised words. She can’t hear them right now, they would break down every wall and barrier and barricade she’s constructed to hold herself together in the last hours. And, anyway, he can’t possibly mean them. They barely know each other. “But you could. I think both of us might have, eventually. So, we have that, at least.”

Her ribs creak at the sudden tightening of his grip, and she squirms until he relents enough to allow her breathing to return to normal.

“It’s not your job to do this, Andy. You make people happy, Andy, you provide hapless souls with coffee, pancakes, and bacon. You do normal, real things like garden and sing karaoke. Saving the world is my job, Sam’s job. Sometimes it’s even Cas’s job, but it’s not yours.”

His sentences ends on something that she would never in a thousand years tell him sounds like a crack. She silently strokes the velvety hairs on the back of his neck, waiting for him to finish clearing his throat.

“Don’t try to be the hero; it never works out for anyone involved, even the people you’re trying to save.”

“Don’t start with me, Dean Winchester. Here we are, having a nice moment, and I will not let you ruin the time we have left with arbitrary things like depth and honesty.”

The air system hisses soothingly in the background, but she won’t let herself be soothed. This time left is for him, she’s not fooling herself about that any longer. What does she have left but Dean, anyway? She’s got three, four hours left at the most, and this is how she chooses to spend them.

She rolls once more, pulling Dean underneath her until she lies atop him, flush from collarbone to ankles. He watches her, his face soft and open for once, golden and warm in the dim light of the little bedside lamp. His hands move slowly, reverently, to glide over the curve of her jaw and mouth, and she can feel the faint tremors that run through his fingers. She kisses his fingers one at a time before lifting her eyes to his.

“No, you don’t,” she repeats, “But you could.” The world needs the Winchesters around a hell of a lot more than it needs her. And while she might make people happy, saving people and hunting things is the Winchesters’ family business. This is her only chance to make sure they and the world stick around long enough for that to keep happening.

…

_ Pre-dawn is too damn cold _ , she decides. She has to visually check that her fingers are actually doing up the buttons to her ragged denim jacket. She lost sensation in her hands a while back, and it’s the only way to make sure they’re actually doing their job. Her jacket is utterly unsuitable for the current temperature, but she doesn’t expect to need it for much longer. Just before sunrise, Crowley told her. The sky is already lightening on the horizon, the medium gray more obvious than she would have thought against the stark black, but, then, she’s never had much occasion to be out quite this late before. She’s usually done at the diner by six, singing at the club by ten, and in bed by two at the latest. She hopes Crowley is punctual. She can’t decide if the waiting or the cold is worse.

Except that, yes, she really can. The waiting is definitely worse _. _

The sound of shifting gravel pulls her out of her thoughts, and she turns to find the King of Hell himself smiling beatifically at her. She shivers, not bothering to search out the source of her discomfort, as she is rather spoiled for choice at the moment. She’s out in the freezing dark, about to hand over her life and soul to a demon because deranged cultists got it into their heads that they should use her blood to start an apocalypse (and who knew there was more than one of those outside of Sunnydale, seriously). Shivering is probably the most rational reaction she’s had in nearly a while.

“Hello, darling. Pleasant evening with the boys?”

He’s got more sass in one off-the cuff remark than she has in her entire history, and for a moment she can only marvel at the affected innocence in his expression; it’ almost convincing. She opts to remain silent rather than take his bait. He smirks, the expression natural and only a touch derisive.

“No surprises, then? No sidekicks to save you at the last minute from the bad, bad demon?”

“I thought the torture didn’t start until after you kill me,” she sighs, hugging her arms tighter around herself, a futile attempt to ward off the chill. Maybe she’s got a little spark in her, after all. He laughs, a friendly, personable chuckle that would set anyone else at ease, reassure them of his honorable, benign intentions.

“Come on, Crowley, what's the hold up? I was here on time; can we just get this over with already? I could have gotten one more round in with Dean if we were just going to stand around shootin’ the breeze.”

Even watching for it, she can only just see the tick in Crowley's jaw, the slightest tension that betrays...something. She doesn't know what or why, but Crowley has more than a little unhealthy obsession with the elder Winchester brother, and she is pleased she managed to crack his veneer even for the briefest moment.

_ At least I don't have to worry about Dean _ , Andy thinks, relief creeping into the sea of dread that is her stomach. Her deal with Crowley was not only about stopping the apocalypse but also keeping Sam and Dean and even Castiel safe.

“Once you're gone, I won’t harm a hair on their precious heads, nor any other part of them,” he swore to her a mere eighteen hours earlier.

“I’m hurt you don't find my company more pleasant, love,” he murmurs, taking a couple of steps closer. He slides his hands in his coat pockets, the very picture of nonchalance. “I do try my best to be pleasant, even congenial, after all. But since you’re so very uncomfortable, I suppose you won't object, then, that I took the liberty of inviting a few friends whose company you seem to prefer. What a lovely party we’ll have when they get here.”

As if he’s summoned them, a pair of lights appear in the distance, growing larger with every passing moment. Headlights, she realizes; a second later, she hears the distinctive roaring of a very particular car engine, and before she can turn back to Crowley, the Impala leaps out of the darkness, skidding across the hard-packed dirt road, coming to a halt bare inches from the demon’s impeccably shined shoes.

Andy stumbles back, choking in the cloud of dust the car kicks up, only to hit something solid. Impossibly strong fingers dig into her chin, lifting her face out and away as cold, thin metal is pressed to the side of her neck, and only now does she freeze.

“Let her go, Crowley,” Dean growls, his gun drawn and aimed even before he exits the car. “This isn't her fight, and you know it!” On the other side, Sam and Castiel climb out, Sam drawing his gun and moving to flank the demon.

“I do heartily protest, sir,” Crowley says, his tone mild and conversational. The blade digs in ever so slightly under her ear, and a thin trickle of warmth slides down her skin to soak into her collar. Dean doesn't flinch, but his eyes narrow, and he readjusts his aim.

“Not only is the lady at the epicenter of this fight, she's gone and made herself the brightest star in the show. Ask her yourself, if you don’t believe me.”

“How-” she manages through fear-numbed vocal cords. Dean should be unconscious, snoring blissfully away in his bed where she left him. She made sure to leave no sort of trail they could follow, and she checked that they were all asleep or otherwise occupied before she took off.

“I wasn’t asleep, Andy,” Dean replies, leveling his gun at Crowley. “And I’ve been tracking since I was seven. Gimme some credit.”

“I wouldn't do that, if I were you, Moose.” Sam freezes in his circling as Crowley’s knife digs a little deeper, and Andy feels the flow of warmth down her neck widen. The sheer smugness in Crowley’s tone sets her teeth on edge, breaking through her stupor, and she grabs the hand with the knife, pulling at it with all her might. She, of course, doesn’t make a dent in the demonic strength, but she’s got to try something.

If you asked her later, Andy would swear to you that the searing pain that drags along her neck parallel to her jaw line right then is pure Hellfire. Deep down in the darkest recesses of her mind where all the worst truths lurk, she knows she’s feeling the bite from Crowley’s knife, but in that instant all she is aware of is the agony of the wound, of Dean’s enraged roar, and the juxtaposition of Crowley’s gentle touch pressing her own fingers to something hot and slippery under her jaw.

“Hold pressure there, sweetheart, or you’ll bleed out too soon. Wouldn’t want you to miss the finale.”

Her knees buckle, and she drops, but somehow she stays upright long enough to see Crowley’s demons approach out of the darkness. She tries to warn the boys, but time moves with a dreamlike lethargy that betrays every one of her good intentions, and, anyway, her voice doesn’t seem to be working at the moment. The roar of gunfire all around her sounds faint in comparison to the rushing in her ears, and she is powerless to stop Crowley’s plans from reaching fruition.

“You...said...you wouldn’t...”

“Well, pet, you aren’t dead yet, are you? I’ve got, what, at least another three minutes before you snuff it, by my count. Plenty of time to conclude my business with the Winchesters and their featherbrained friend before you expire.”

Though he was right behind her only a moment ago, Crowley appears abruptly next to Castiel, who at the moment is distracted by two lesser demons both wielding machetes. She realizes as she watches Cas easily fend them off that they, just like her, are only a distraction, only bait to tempt the bigger players to overextend themselves.

Too late, she sees the perfection of Crowley’s plan. In all the confusion, she loses track of Sam, and she wrenches her eyes away from Dean’s staggering form only to watch as the angel blade in Crowley’s hand bursts through Castiel’s chest. Then her gentle, confused friend is gone. The demons vanish, and she can’t find Sam or Dean, can’t reach them, can’t make her voice work to call out.

The quiet is wrong, so out of place after the violent cacophony. The roaring is gone, the gunfire silenced, and all that’s left is a terrible wheezing, gurgling sound that takes her too long to recognize as her own labored breathing.

“Crow...ley…”

“I’m here, darling. What do you need?”

“Lying...bastard…”

“Now, now, sweetheart, are those really what you want your last words to be?” He lifts her easily from the ground, carrying her the few yards to where Dean lies sprawled in the dusty gravel. His shirt is stained black in the retreating darkness, and Andy can only be thankful that she won’t make it to sunrise to see what exact shade of red is spreading over him. Dean’s far hand scrabbles on the ground, stopping its frantic search only when it finds his brother’s.

Sam’s still form doesn’t return his brother’s grip.

“After all, I’ve done you a favor; I didn’t have to give you the opportunity to say good-bye. I can’t promise you adjoining cells, but I’m sure your torture will coincide with his occasionally,” Crowley continues conversationally, “so, really, the two of you should be thanking me that you’ll at least get occasional visiting privileges. It pays to be on good terms with the king, after all. And, who knows? After a couple hundred years of good behavior, I might even be persuaded to-”

“Why?” It’s all she can manage as he lays her on the ground. Dean reaches for her with his free hand, and she is just able to find his fingers. Their eyes meet, but her vision is blurring as breathing gets tougher, and she can’t see what he’s mouthing to her. Even his eyes, such a luminescent green only hours ago, are fading into the remaining dark of the night.

“The Winchesters, dear, it’s always been about the Winchesters. Oh, the fanatics and their doomsday ritual were real enough, alright, as was your blood. I just simply took advantage of the situation, as any intelligent monarch would do. Settled things with the apocalypse groupies, rid myself of some major pains in my rear, and now I get you, to boot! I do love when a plan comes together.”

Dean’s fingers tighten in hers, and she tries to grip his back, but the harder she holds on, the less she can feel him.

She’s not really feeling much of anything but cold now.

“Just...shut...up...already.”

“Always ungrateful in the end, even after everything I do for them,” Crowley grumbles from above her. But then he does shut up, and she finally feels something besides the cold.

Relief.

…

“Miss? Miss? Hey, are you okay?”

A hand grips Andy’s arm, firm but polite, and she jerks to, almost losing her footing. It’s been a long day already, and she still has three hours to go before she can go home, shower, and put her feet up for a little while before karaoke at the Brass Monkey starts up.

_ Maybe I can even fit in a nap _ , she thinks excitedly.  _ But first, gotta wake up and make it through the rest of my shift. _

Of course, if she hadn’t been tossing and turning all night with insane dreams, she wouldn’t be as tired as she is now, but that’s neither here nor there. And it doesn’t help that she can’t even remember the stupid dream. It was really long, though, and there was blood and books and…someone...

“Can I get a refill over here?”

Two hours, forty-seven minutes, and twenty-two seconds to go. She can do this.

The minutes crawl, though, and it’s all she can do to stay on her feet and focus. The lunch crowd has long since thinned, and she’s about to ask if she can maybe take off a little early when the door chimes and she catches the tail end of the entering customers’ conversation.

“Could you at least consider putting something green on your plate? Like, ever? Broccoli won’t kill you.”

“I’ve already told you, I’m getting breakfast since you didn’t wake me up early enough to eat a decent one this morning. Pancakes, bacon, and coffee, which, I might add, grows on a tree, so it counts as a plant. That’s balanced enough for me. You like broccoli, you go right ahead, Jolly Green.”

“Sam isn’t green, Dean. Is your vision faulty? Perhaps we should get your eyes examined. Or you could try carrots along with the broccoli. Carrots are supposed to improve vision.”

_ No. No, no, no _ , she thinks, her mind whirling frantically.  _ It was a dream, they can’t be here. This is...this is how it started, and... _

She turns on her heel, and there they are, Sam and Dean dolled up in their clean, pressed feds suits and Cas looking just as rumpled and bewildered as she suddenly remembers. They seat themselves at an empty table in her section, but any thoughts of leaving early evaporated the second she heard their voices. Every moment of the dream, every minute of those four weeks comes screaming back, cramming each terror-laden, tension-ridden second into her mind so fast she actually does stumble and has to grab the back of a nearby booth to keep from hitting the worn-out linoleum.

“It...hasn’t happened yet.”

“I’m sorry, did you say something? Hey, hey, hold on there. Are you okay?”

Then Sam’s hand is supporting her elbow, helping her straighten up, and she looks up into his concerned eyes, unable to express how glad she is just to see him breathing. Behind him, Dean and Cas are arguing about something trivial, wonderfully animated and alive and completely unaware of her.

“I’m sorry, hun, it’s just been a long shift. Gimme a minute to grab some waters and menus, and I’ll be right over.” Sam accepts her flimsy excuse at face value, and why wouldn’t he? He hasn’t lived with her for the better part of a month, hasn’t saved her life once, hasn’t tried to save the world with her. He doesn’t know her at all. Why should he question a strange waitress in a strange diner who says she’s had a long day? He’s met hundreds of women just like her, maybe thousands, and he’s got no reason to question a completely legitimate statement.

She rushes into the back to find the coldest water possible to splash on her face. Her reflection gapes back at her from the staff bathroom mirror as the enormity of her situation begins to dawn on her.

Why? Why is this happening? Either she actually lived through those weeks and is somehow getting a do-over, or she dreamed the whole thing and is getting a shot to fix things from this end. But why? And how? How in the hell?

_ Think, Andrea, think. It was real. It will be real. It hasn’t happened yet. You haven’t screwed everything up yet. You have to fix this. But how? How can I fix it when I screwed everything up so very badly last time? _

_ Just...think. Think. Start small. Try to stop it before it happens. But...the cult. Crowley said they were real. They found me before, they’ll find me again. I could talk to Sam and Dean and Cas about what's going to happen. They’ve been through enough insanity in their lives that I actually have a pretty good shot at convincing them. _

She stares into the mirror, racking her brain for every helpful detail they learned during her time with the Winchesters.

_ They're already investigating all the break-ins hereabouts; those were the cultists looking for me in the first place. Then they find me, take me, bleed me, and start the apocalypse. The boys can stop the ritual before it even happens. _

Her reflection in the mirror frowns, unconvinced the solution could possibly be that easy.

_ But the literature, the books, it’s all still out there. Someone else could find it, could come after me. My blood is the problem. I’m the key. As long as I’m around, someone could still use me to end everything. Crowley can still use me to get to them. Think. You’ve got to actually stop everything and save them this time. _

The world can’t make it without the Winchesters. That’s answer enough for her right there.

Fifteen minutes later, she sets a fresh green salad in front of Sam before dropping a towering stack of steaming pancakes in front of Dean.

“Fresh pot of coffee coming off in two, be right back with your refills. Need any more butter or syrup, hun? How ‘bout a couple of extra pieces of bacon on the house?”

“Don’t encourage him, please,” Sam groans. Dean slaps his brother on the back of the head, sending Sam’s perpetually coiffed hair into a tizzy of disarray. Sam swipes back at his brother, who waves off Sam’s attempts at retaliation like he’s swatting a fly.

“You shut your pie hole. She said free bacon. That makes her a queen.” He turns his most charming smile on her, glancing down at her name tag then back up to meet her eyes squarely. The crinkles around his eyes deepen with his grin. “Andrea, is it?”

“Andy,” she corrects automatically, and she can’t help her answering smile. He throws her a wink that clearly says he knows he’s cheesy but it's all part of his irresistible charm. She doesn’t disagree.

“You are a goddess, Andy. I love you, and you need to know that.”

“You don’t,” she says, only just managing to keep her voice and smile level, “but you could.” His answering laugh sends a twinge through her chest, and if she clenches her jaw a little around her smile, she figures she’s entitled.

When the men finally finish eating, she offers a slip of paper to Dean, while Sam pretends he isn’t rolling his eyes.

“There’s a karaoke competition at the Brass Monkey tonight. Winner gets tab on the house for a week. Interested in maybe meeting up there around ten or so? We could have a drink, sing a song, and see where the rest of the night takes us.”

He grins and takes the slip from her with sure fingers. She’s certain he has her number memorized before the paper even retains his prints, but he makes a special show of tucking it safely into his pocket.

“Dean, do you think it wise to allow yourself to be so distracted when we’re in the middle of an investigation?”

And without even realizing it, Cas gives her the perfect opening.

“Oh, you boys investigating out the break-ins hereabouts? Were they too much for our local boys to handle? Listen, hun, my friend was one of the ladies whose house got broken into. If you want to stick around for a few minutes, I can fill you in on what I know and send you her way. Would that help?”

Castiel’s eyebrows lift in surprise, and he is clearly pleased with his first-rate investigating skills. “That would help immensely, Miss Andrea. Thank you.”

She can’t believe her luck at such a perfect lead-in, and she runs with it.

“Now that I think about it, the shop next door mentioned something about their alarm getting tripped a few nights in a row. Maybe I could talk to your friend while you two check it out? And I’ll see you tonight, Dean? Ten o’clock?”

Dean’s grin softens, and she can see the faintest tinge of red along his cheeks. She didn’t notice it the first time around, and now she wishes she’d paid more attention. Then the brothers leave, and she’s alone with the angel.

“Cas, you’ve got to listen to me.”

“I’m sorry, miss, I think you have me confused with someone else. My name is Agent Michael Jagger.”

She grips his hand, pulling him uncomfortably close, and she can see suspicion dawning in his eyes. She tows him to the back area of the restaurant, technically for staff only, but she doesn’t figure petty rules like that matter just now.

“Listen, Miss, you’ve shown interest in my partner and scheduled time to socialize with him later. While I do find you somewhat attractive, I really must-“

“I need you to listen, and then I need you to look. Do you understand?”

“Not even a little.”

“That’s okay, hun, neither do I.”

And then she tells him everything. He can only stare at her silently afterwards, his mouth working as if he’s lost the ability to speak.

“Read me, Castiel. You can see if I’m telling the truth. Hell, go deeper and  _ see _ what I’m telling you. Please, it won’t hurt anything if I’m lying, and if I’m telling the truth, you and I can save them. Please,  _ please _ , I’m literally begging you. Just look.”

Looking as if he’d rather do anything else, Castiel gingerly slides his fingers into her hair until the heels of his hands are resting on her cheekbones and his thumbs rest on her temples. His eyes slide shut, his face going just a little slack, and then he’s there with her in the memories, memories that faded with the sunrise but scorched forever into her brain the second she saw the three of them again. She knows the moment he sees his own death because his body convulses ever so slightly, but he holds on until the scene plays out and she takes her last breath in the dream.

His eyes snap open and unerringly find hers.

“How is this possible?  _ Who are you? _ ”

If she didn’t have those weeks of memories, she might be afraid of him right now.

“Cas, you know who I am. You saw me. I have no idea more idea why this is all happening than you, but we’ve got this second chance, and we have to take it.”

He eyes her cautiously, but his mistrust is beginning to fade. “I’ve been fooled before. You could be hiding something, I suppose, but...I don’t think you are.”

Relief floods over her, though a bitter tinge underlies the sweetness.

“You believe me?”

He nods reluctantly, his dry lips thinning unhappily. “I saw your plan. Are you certain this is what you want to do? Do you think it will work?”

“Well, Cas, you can see I don’t have the best track record with plans. Can you think of anything better that leaves the world intact and you, Sam, and Dean all standing?”

Even though she knows what his answer will be, her stomach still drops a little when he shakes his head.

“Yeah, me neither. It was worth a shot.”

He searches her face without suspicion this time, only a deep, genuine sorrow. “I wish I could have had those four weeks with you, Andrea. In the vision, you were a good person to spend time with.”

“Call me Andy, Cas. I swear, I never could get you to call me Andy.”

“But your name tag-”

She cuts him off with a kiss to the cheek. She holds back everything else she wants to say to her friend-that-never-was. It wouldn’t make any sense to him now, on this side of their non-existent time together, and it wouldn't make either of them feel any better. She hands him a piece of torn paper from her order pad, this one larger than the one she gave Dean.

“You need to verify with what you saw when you read me, but I remember the ritual starts at midnight tomorrow night. They took me from the Brass Monkey not long before then. You can investigate if you need to, but I would bet that they’ll be at the first address I gave you a few hours before then, say eight or nine o’clock, getting everything set up before they come to snatch me. You know what you and the guys will need to take them out; without my blood and the ritual, they’re still dangerous, but they’re only human. Tell Sam and Dean whatever you need to get them there, but...I don’t think you should tell them what you saw. I think everything would get too muddled, and we’d end up right back at the same crossroads with Crowley.”

“Are you sure it’s wise to still meet up with Dean tonight? What if-”

“Everything has happened the same way so far, Cas, down to Sam nagging Dean about vegetables. And I’ve got to give myself  _ something _ ,” she says, her laugh a little more desperate and hysterical than she would like. “I can’t just...Look, just give me this one night, okay? I think I deserve that. I think Dean deserves that.”

He glances from her to the scrap of paper in his hand. She notices that his lips move a little when he’s reading, and she thinks that little quirk suits him just fine.

“Why is there a second address?”

Thanking whatever higher power gave her this second chance and the ability to keep the fallen angel out of even a few of her thoughts, she turns away from Castiel, moving towards the sink to start on some dishes that someone has let pile up. She’s under enough strain right now that she can’t disguise her school anymore, and she honestly doesn’t think she can handle the sadness in his eyes for one more second.

“I’m going to keep myself out of the way this time; I have no intention of starting another apocalypse. I’ll stay in tomorrow night and triple lock every entrance to my apartment until you tell Dean to call me and give me the all clear. That’s where you’ll find me when the job’s done. And, Cas?”

He pauses in the doorway, looking back at her with a tortured expression she never sees.

“Remember we can’t leave any loose ends this time. That’s how you get more apocalypses.”

…

She’s ready and waiting for Dean when he walks in the bar. She can tell he’s taken a little effort with his appearance: his hair is freshly styled, he’s wearing a button-up that  _ isn’t _ a flannel, and - wonder of wonders- he actually shaved. Having spent an extra minute or thirty on her own primping, she is pleased when his eyes go a little wide as they rake over her seated form.

“I already know I look good, but damned if you didn’t just make me feel edible.” He grins and takes the stool next to her. She’s pleased (but not surprised) when he brushes a kiss on her cheek in greeting. She sips her drink as he orders one of his own, and then they turn on their stools to survey the crowd. He leans a little closer to say something, and she hears him inhale when he gets near.

“You smell amazing. What is that?”

She grins behind her glass. Dean Winchester is not one to comment on a woman’s scent, at least, not in such an innocent, non-sexual way. And yet, both times around, he does just that.

“Lavender and clover from some boxes on my balcony. I clip some fresh bits sometimes and rub them on instead of perfume. Smells cleaner, less suffocating. Can leave a bit of green on my skin, but only a few people are ever close enough to notice, and so far none of them have been stupid enough to complain.”

“I like it.”

And then they talk about little nothings and nonsense for the next few minutes, favorite bands and movies and foods and anything she can think of just to listen to him talk, to experience him a little more. She doesn’t remember being able to make him laugh this much before, and she thinks maybe she’s doing just a little better time around.

“So, what’re you gonna wow me with?” he asks, gesturing towards the stage with his half-full glass.

“I was thinking ‘Making Love out of Nothing at All,’ but you could probably talk me into ‘Lonely Is the Night’ or even ‘All out of Love’ if you get me tipsy enough.”

He laughs, a bright, weightless sound that cracks her heart in half. She can’t help leaning in and kissing him then, and he leans right back, blissfully unaware of the burden she’s struggling more and more to hide. She pulls away, and he opens his mouth to say something, but she pecks him on the lips just long enough to stop him speaking.

“You don’t. But you could.”

There’s that smile.

They sit in companionable silence for several songs, sipping their drinks and listening to the other singers. She’s just about to go put her first song request in when he looks over at her, freezing her utterly with one side-long glance.

“How long?”

She can’t have heard him right.

“I’m...I’m sorry?”

“How long have we got? Do you turn into a pumpkin at midnight, or can I keep you out later?”

_ Oh. Oh, God, Dean, why? _

“You know what? I think I might actually go for some Bob Seger. Come help me pick one out.”

…

“Andy, are you okay? We took care of the crackpot apocalypse cult, but Cas isn’t making any sense. Why is he telling me to check in with you? How did you know about all this?”

“You got all of them? None of them got away? Does Cas still have the second address, Dean?”

“What does... _ No, Cas, I don’t... _ Jesus, alright! Yes, Andy, Cas has the address. Why? What the hell is going on? Are you gonna give me some answers, or-”

“Just come to the address, Dean. I’ll be here.”

...

The embers of the fire smoke sullenly in the steady drizzle. The flames died down a while ago, leaving only chunks of wood and ash, but still Dean stands sentinel over the remnants of the pyre. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets, his face a stoic mask. There are streaks of blood down the front of his shirt from the fight earlier in the night, smears of dirt and soot across his skin that are beginning to run down in rivulets of dirty rain water. His eyes are red and a little wetter than the weather warrants. His clothing is soaked and chilled, but he stopped feeling the temperature a while ago.

He hasn’t moved in hours.

“Cas, I know he had that one night with her, but, I mean...can you at least explain how she knew about that ritual? Why would she do this to herself? And why did she need a hunter’s funeral? Was she a hunter? I didn’t recognize her.”

Cas stares miserably out of the Impala’s windshield, watching his lost friend without a clue of how to comfort him. Sam sits in the backseat, bewildered and completely unaware of how close he came to losing everything. Cas finds himself irrationally annoyed with Sam’s ignorance, despite being one of the main sources.

“I can’t tell you, Sam. She didn’t want me to, and I agree with her. But you should be very grateful, all the same. She saved you and your brother. She saved all of us.”

“Cas, I don’t-”

“That’s right,” the angel agrees suddenly, his brusque tone shutting down Sam’s questions. “You don’t. I’m going to check on Dean.”

…

“I just want to register for the record that you are a damned coward. Don’t give me any of that benevolent wisdom bullshit. You are a sick, sadistic, neglectful bastard, and I’m finding it hard to think of a single good thing you’ve ever done.”

The irate woman glares down at Chuck in his worn vinyl booth until he begins to squirm under her gaze. His eyes flick away from hers, then back suddenly, as if he’s afraid to let her out of his sight for too long.

“You still got a little time with him. Better to have loved and lost than to-”

She leans down in front of him, resting her hands on the table and bending until her nose is inches from his. He can smell the lavender and clover that she told Dean about, can smell the blood and the scotch, but most of all he can smell the smoke.

She continues to stare him down silently, her displeasure evidently in every line and angle of her body. His irritation rises, and his lips thin with displeasure until they almost disappear into his beard. He clicks his tongue at her, cocking his head to the side.

“I could have just let things run the course that they naturally did the first time, including your ‘highly successful’ deal with Crowley. Aren’t you humans always moaning about getting second chances? I gave you the chance to fix everything that went wrong the first time!”

“Considering I had to die both times for the world and the Winchesters to still be safe, I’d say there were still some holes in the overall plotline.”

He glares at her, resentful and sullen, unwilling to budge. “You made your choices, both times around. Free will, and all that? I could have just let you all die, let you live with the consequences of your choices just like every other human in history. I didn’t have to give you that rewind, you know.”

“ _ Then why did you?!? _ ”

Her furious outburst echoes around the empty tavern. She takes a deep breath, forgetting for a moment that she no longer needs to breathe at all,  but the action serves its purpose, and her anger is temporarily eased. He takes advantage of the quiet to push his point, trying one more time to get her to see his side.

“I wanted to give you, them...another chance. I couldn't see many ways out of this...tangle. So I put everything out there that I could think of to help you, and I hoped you’d make the right choice. And you...did?”

But this woman, this impossible, irritable, flawed human, is clearly unimpressed that this is the first time in existence that he’s bothered to explain his reasoning to anyone.

“For the record, regardless of where it sends me, you are a complete dick.”

He holds her gaze soberly, his expression going neutral with only a tinge of regret, before finally raising his hand in a sort of farewell gesture. Then she’s gone, and he is alone once more.

“For the record,” he mutters as he lowers his hands to the typewriter in front of him, “you’re not wrong.”

….

_ “We’ve Got Tonight” by Bob Seger _

_ I know it's late, I know you're weary _

_ I know your plans don't include me _

_ Still here we are, both of us lonely _

_ Longing for shelter from all that we see _

_ Why should we worry, no one will care girl _

_ Look at the stars so far away _

_ We've got tonight, who needs tomorrow? _

_ We've got tonight babe _

_ Why don't you stay? _

_ Deep in my soul, I've been so lonely _

_ All of my hopes, fading away _

_ I've longed for love, like everyone else does _

_ I know I'll keep searching, even after today _

_ So there it is girl, I've said it all now _

_ And here we are babe, what do you say? _

_ We've got tonight, who needs tomorrow? _

_ We've got tonight babe _

_ Why don't you stay? _

_ I know it's late, I know you're weary _

_ I know your plans don't include me _

_ Still here we are, both of us lonely _

_ Both of us lonely _

_ We've got tonight, who needs tomorrow? _

_ Let's make it last, let's find a way _

_ Turn out the light, come take my hand now _

_ We've got tonight babe _

_ Why don't you stay? _

_ Why don't you stay? _

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks and credits to Incog_Ninja, who spent countless hours carefully coaxing this story out of my brain and then helping re-craft what didn't work. This story did not come as easily or organically, and had to be coaxed out of its stubborn hole with many threats and incentives. Writing is hard, y'all, and this story just proved the rule. This was my first Supernatural story, and I hope it won't be my last.


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